


The Hands of Command

by IrLaimsaAraLath



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-04 05:37:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12764274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrLaimsaAraLath/pseuds/IrLaimsaAraLath
Summary: Cullen and Caitlin and his hands.





	The Hands of Command

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a post about the hands of the various companions in the Inquisition.
> 
> You can find it here: https://keeperscompanionsdai.tumblr.com/post/167020043322/hands-of-the-inquisition

When Cullen failed to present himself for the evening meal, she was not alarmed.  He frequently lost track of time, buried beneath piles of missives and reports, and simply forgot.  Much to her chagrin, he was especially  _ good _ at taking very  _ bad _ care of himself.  Once she was finished with her own meal, she stole into the kitchens, fixed a plate for him, and with a bottle of spiced wine in hand, she made her way to his tower.   Lightly, she rapped on his door she made her way inside.  “You missed dinner, Commander,” she said, a teasing lilt in her voice as she shut the door behind her.  She found Cullen hunched over his desk in his shirt sleeves, with crumpled wads of parchment piled on the corner and spilling into the floor.  He didn't even acknowledge her presence as the scratching of his quill was drowned out by his voice as he swore coarsely, balled up the current sheet, and angrily threw it.  

 

With a brow arched, she paused, watching the paper fly by before she glanced back to him.  He had finally noticed her and sighed, his brow deeply creased as he clenched and unclenched his fists.  “I apologize.  I didn't hear you,” he said with a tone of voice that was a sharp contrast, soft with remorse and short with irritation.  He balled one fist as he grasped his wrist to occupy his free hand and gazed at her with tightly reined frustration that manifested as anguish in his eyes.  “What's wrong?” she asked without hesitation, not bothering to acknowledge his apology because it was unnecessarily given.  Sitting the food and wine aside on a table against the wall, she approached him and turned the violet concern of her eyes down to him.  

 

His eyes met hers, and she could see his desire to confess, but instead, his jaw set and he flicked a finger out to the chaos of his desk.  “The leader of the Empress’s armies in Orlais is proving difficult to satisfy.   To be expected, I suppose.  He IS Oleasian.  But…”  And she stopped listening though he continued on with his overly elaborate answer, perhaps in the hope that she wouldn't notice that his hands were still shaking despite their being fisted and occupied.  When she draped a hand over both of his, he drew off into silence, and all hints of his flimsy charade evaporated.  The muscles in his jaws slackened, and his eyes fell in concert with his shoulders as he leaned his forehead against her arm.  She felt the heavy heat of his sigh even through her sleeve.   

 

“Let me see your hands, Cullen,” she finally said, after giving him an opportunity to compose himself.  “It's nothing.  It’s just the headache,” the final words were almost meek, a sound she was unaccustomed to hearing from him except in the most unusual of circumstances.   “Now, Commander,” she ordered, and she saw his shoulders tense beneath the brushed cotton of his shirt as he leaned back and slanted his gaze up at her.  There were many things in his eyes, and despite the fact that all of them balked at her command, he unfurled his fists to present his hands for inspection.  Each finger seemed to twitch in a separate rhythm all its own on hands that shivered constantly as if fearful of the unsteady arms that held them.  

 

Her eyes passed back to his, and the effort to control the involuntary spasms stood out in the veins that showed at his temples and the sweat that was beaded at his hairline.  It was also evident in the lines between his knitted brows and the fear in his amber eyes.  Fear of how it would affect his duties, how it would look to his soldiers, whether or not it would be taken as weakness by visiting allies...fear of what she would think.  Her expression made the statement she didn’t need to give voice to:   _ That is much more than a headache.   _ She braced her hip against the edge of his desk, purposefully brushing her leg against his as she awaited his response.   There was hesitation before he finally lowered his hands to grip the lip of the desk.  He was no longer looking at her when he said, “I can't make them stop.”   As she exhaled, everything about her softened:  her posture and her eyes, her touch as rose to stroke a few fingertips through the hair over his ear and curled her fingers behind his head.  He looked up at her, and there was a glossy sheen in his eyes and an expression that walked the tenuous line between sadness and panic.  

 

“What if it never goes away?  If I can never hold a sword again?   If we…”  He paused there and swallowed hard, the glaze on his eyes melting to collect in his lashes as unshed tears.  “How would I ever hold our child with hands like these?”  The last of it pierced her as surely as any blade might, twisting pain in her guts and anguish in her heart.  She lifted his hands so that she could step between him and his desk and laid his hands against her waist.  He immediately gripped at her hips, his shaking now moving through her.  She cupped his face and tilted it up, his resistance to her manipulation making it an actual effort.  However, when she finally held his gaze, she smiled.  “Very carefully, I imagine, just as you would with hands that didn't shake.  With exquisite love, gentle care,” she said, rubbing her thumbs against the rough stubble on his cheeks.  “You'd hold our child with a father’s hands, and there would be no safer place in Thedas.”  His lips tightened, and there was argument in the movement, protest at her confidence, her faith in him, and yet his eyes spoke of something else.  Reassurance, gratitude, love. 

 

His legs splayed to either side of hers, and he pulled her closer, hands sliding around to her back to allow him to lock his arms about her waist.  He nuzzled into her stomach and took a deep breath before he turned his head to rest his cheek against her.  One of her hands found its place in his hair, fingers unsettling the purposeful styling to tangle into untamed curls at the crown of his head.  The other arm fell across the back of his shoulders, and she simply held him for long, silent moments.  She bent to place a light kiss on the top of his head and said, “Of course, if you  _ really _ want to test the theory,  **after** you’ve finished dinner, we can go upstairs and start to work on making one.”  He made a brief, incredulous noise that made her smile and did nothing to discourage her.  “Of course, it’ll take a few tries, I imagine.  But, practice makes perfect, they say,” she concluded as she combed her fingers through his hair.  He only held her tighter when he said, “You’re incorrigible.”  The tone of his voice had lightened, was less burdened, and she pressed another kiss to his hair and smiled.  “I know.”


End file.
